‘Speak of the devil!’ Edward de Bruce cautioned his brother to silence as he spotted three figures approaching along the sand. Two of them were wrapped in dark woollen cloaks and underneath they wore chain mail shirts. They bore a definite facial resemblance, but one of them was clearly much older than the other. The elder man’s hair and beard had turned iron grey as he approached his fifties. His long hair was braided. His companion was in his mid-twenties and his still jet-black hair was coifed long in the latest French style. Both possessed the same pale blue eyes but while the elder man’s bore a genial spark the younger man’s emanated an arrogant, challenging stare. With them was a blond-haired man with a full, bristling beard clad in the colourful, traditional wrapped apparel of a Scotsman, albeit a very wealthy one. This man led the way.
As they approached, a flock of black-headed terns in their path took to flight. They wheeled around overhead and their high-pitched, indignant cries filled the air.
‘Ulick Ceannaideach, Chieftain of the Clan Ceannaideach. My loyal servant!’ Robert Bruce greeted the blond Scotsman in Gaelic and allowed the man to begrudgingly kiss his hand. ‘And Syr Hugh Bysset! Laird of the Irish Glynns. Hugh, is this your nephew John too?’ Bruce switched to Norman French: ‘Old friends, I’m glad to see you. I trust your crossing was an easy one?’
‘Easy and short, Robert,’ Hugh Bysset, the Lord of the North Irish Counties responded, before suddenly remembering: ‘Sorry: Your Majesty. Last we met you were just a cousin, and one in trouble at that.’
‘Indeed, Hugh!’ Bruce grinned. ‘We were just talking about how you saved my hide when I was on the run from the English after Methven. I won’t forget the danger you put yourself in by harbouring me in Rathlin Island castle.’
The older Bysset chuckled. ‘Sure, wasn’t I the one who King Edward Longshanks ordered to hunt you down? Who was I in danger from? Myself?’
Both men laughed heartily. Bruce shook his head. ‘I often think of that summer I spent in that beautiful castle on Rathlin Island.’
Bysset threw back his head and laughed again. ‘Aye, Robert. I’m sure you do. It was falling down! The rain used to come in through the roof in rivers and the island was about as far from civilisation as you can get. No need to be polite. It was a shithole.’
Bruce returned the knowing smile. ‘Yes, but a safe shithole. We had a few good nights there, I remember.’
Hugh Bysset nodded. ‘We did, when I brought a few wenches over to the island…’
‘And the uisce beatha they distil on your lands.’ Bruce shook his head. ‘I had a few sore heads in those days on Rathlin.’
‘Have you heard the legend about you now, though?’ said Bysset. ‘You disappeared and could not be found, despite Longshanks having both sides of the Irish Sea combed for you. The common folk say that after the massacre at Methven you hid out in a cave for a year. While there you saw a spider trying to spin a web. You broke the web and the spider spun it again. You broke it again and it spun it again. No matter how many times you broke the web, that wee spider just kept re-spinning it. From this, you learned that no matter how many times you are knocked down, you get back up and try, try again. This inspired you to carry on your fight against the English. Now Rathlin Castle was bad, Robert, but it was far from a cave.’
‘Good story, though, eh? Appropriate anyway. I wonder where it came from?’ Bruce winked. ‘Anyway, how are things in Ireland? Will my brother be welcomed with open arms?’
Hugh Bysset frowned. ‘I wish I could say that, but the ground is far from sure. Some support you, some don’t. On the one hand I bring a letter for you from Domnall Ui Neill, King of Tyr Eoghan, pledging his support for you. It’s signed by thirteen other chieftains. The de Lacys might support you also. On the other hand I’ve also brought a couple of people with me to show how precarious things are…’
‘What about these English dogs?’ the Ceannaideach chieftain interrupted in Gaelic, uncomfortable at being excluded from the conversation in a language he did not understand. ‘When do we question them?’
For the first time the young John Bysset seemed interested in the conversation and echoed Ceannaideach’s query with a questioning glance towards the King of Scotland.
Bruce laid a reassuring hand on Ceannaideach’s muscle-packed shoulder. ‘Ulick, I know you are keen to use your special talents. We will go and question them straight away.’ He signalled to his brother Edward and the Byssets to follow him as they set off up the beach towards a forest of tents that lay between the beach and the walls of the town of Ayr.
As they walked, several blazes of light appeared in the distance. Through the fog, they appeared to be igniting up in the sky somewhere.
‘The Beltane fires,’ Bruce commented in Gaelic. ‘Tonight begins the Feast of Beltane. On the hilltops all around here the traditional Beltane Eve bonfires are being lit. There will be feasting and the cattle will be driven between the blazes to purify them. Hugh, I’m sure if we could see through the fog to your lands in Ireland we would see the same fires being kindled.’
‘Oh yes, the natives—’ Bysset checked himself as he caught a withering glance from Robert Bruce ‘—we will be lighting them on our headlands and hilltops tonight too. It’s been the tradition since time immemorial.’
‘This is why the coming war is so necessary, Hugh.’ Edward Bruce joined the conversation, putting one arm around Bysset’s shoulders and another around Ceannaideach’s. ‘We are not two people, but one. We are separated by sea, but we are one people, with one culture, one language and shared traditions. Six hundred years ago, we Scots left Ireland and crossed the Moyle Sea to forge this country. Now we shall return to join our own folk, to help them throw off the yolk of their foreign overlords. This is not about Ireland and Scotland; it is about uniting Greater Scotia.’
Ceannaideach nodded enthusiastically. Bysset shot a raised eyebrow towards King Robert Bruce. Either Bruce did not see it, or he chose to ignore it.
‘Who are these men you have brought to us?’ Robert Bruce asked as they approached one of the large leather tents. Two heavily armed highlanders stood on guard at the entrance.
‘One is a sea captain,’ Bysset said. ‘He is little more than a pirate, but the most recent cargo he ferried across the Irish Sea to Ulster is very interesting: an envoy of Edward of England. We don’t know if this sea captain is working for the English Crown or not but it will be worth finding out whatever information he has. He had just left Carrickfergus for England when one of my warships intercepted his boat and brought him here. We thought it prudent to stop him potentially returning a message to the English.’
‘Who’s the other one?’ said Edward Bruce.
‘Raymond de Sandal. Bachelor knight from the north coast of Ulster. His family own the castle that guards the bridge at the town of Coleraine. We’ve received information from the Hospitaller that he has been actively working as an agent of the English Crown in Ireland.’
Robert Bruce nodded. ‘What about this envoy of the King of England? What’s King Edward up to? Does he know how close the invasion is?’
‘The earl has kept the envoy in Carrickfergus Castle, no doubt until he knows more about what the man’s mission is,’ Bysset said.
Bruce frowned. ‘Ah, my always-scheming father-in-law, Earl Richard de Burgh. Is there any chance that soon he will declare openly whose side he is on?’
‘The army is ready to sail. His time for prevarication is running out,’ Edward Bruce growled.
‘You know the earl as well as I do, Robert,’ Hugh Bysset said. ‘Trying to discern what is going on in his head is like trying to count how many ships there are out in that fog.’
‘What about the holy secret we possess?’ said Bruce. ‘Does that not influence him in any way?’
Bysset shook his head. ‘What do you think? Spiritual matters do not impress the earl any longer. All he cares about these days is keeping his estates and wealth intact, and sheltering the ambitions of himself and his family.’
The Bruce brothers exchanged glances.
‘He won’t be happy to hear what the Parliament has just approved then,’ Edward Bruce said.
Bysset looked puzzled.
‘Gathering of the Parliament here at Ayr was a cover for mustering our invasion army,’ Robert Bruce explained. ‘However, there was also legitimate business for it to discuss. As the Earl of Ulster’s daughter has not seen fit to provide me with a son yet, I need to make provision for who will succeed me if I’m killed. I have currently no male heir, so Parliament has approved my brother Edward as my successor to the throne.’
Bysset frowned and shook his head. ‘The earl certainly won’t be pleased to hear that.’
‘How long are you staying?’ Robert Bruce quickly switched the subject. ‘We will feast tonight. You are both welcome.’
Hugh Bysset shook his head. ‘There is a tournament at Carrickfergus tomorrow. John here is competing and there will be a feast at the castle tomorrow night. We must be there or people will ask questions.’
Robert Bruce nodded his approval. ‘Very prudent. However, do not forget we are counting on you to pilot the invasion fleet to a safe landing place in Ireland. Now, let us have a talk with our guests, shall we?’
The two highlanders on guard stood aside to let them enter the tent. Just before they opened the tent flap, Robert Bruce laid a hand on Ceannaideach’s chest. ‘Ulick. These men are yours to question. Find out what you can. The sea captain probably knows nothing so concentrate on the knight.’
Ceannaideach nodded. Hugh Bysset noticed that, almost unseen, the Scotsman was drawing a dagger from up the sleeve of his tunic.
The tent flap was drawn aside and they all entered. Ceannaideach signalled to the two highlanders to follow them in too. The inside of the tent was gloomy in the late afternoon murk but they could see two men, trussed up uncomfortably with their hands bound behind their backs to their ankles. They both lay on their sides. One of the highland guards kindled a torch and hung it in a bracket to give more light to the scene.
‘Up, dogs!’ Ceannaideach roared in English. ‘Kneel before your king!’
The command was useless as neither man could move of their own accord, so the highlanders dragged both up into a position where they were resting painfully on their haunches. One of the men was the weather-beaten captain of the Mary. He looked at the men before him with a defiant, almost sceptical gaze. This was probably not the first time he had been in such a position. His companion was a young man with dark brown hair. He would probably have been described as good-looking, if his nose had not been recently smashed and his right eye blackened.
‘What does Edward of England know of our plans?’ Ceannaideach growled. ‘You might as well tell us everything right now and save yourselves a lot of bother.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ the sea captain said. ‘I am a merchant. I don’t know the king’s mind.’
Ceannaideach took a step towards him and grabbed him by the hair. The knife in his other hand flashed briefly in the torchlight as its point entered the captain’s skull to the right of his nose. Ceannaideach flexed his wrist and with a brief sucking noise the captain’s eyeball was flicked out of its socket. The ruined orb struck the leather tent wall with a wet thump, then began to slide down towards the ground, oozing a ghastly trail of blood and slime behind it. The whole thing was done so quickly that the eyeball had reached the ground before the captain started screaming from the pain.
Edward Bruce looked on with grim approval. Hugh Bysset flinched at the sudden violence. His nephew John’s face took on an expression of gloating enjoyment.
‘I’m not here to piss about,’ Ceannaideach shouted. ‘Tell us!’
‘Shove your face in a turd, you son of a whore,’ the sea captain managed to gasp through the pain and shock.
Ceannaideach smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile. ‘You must have seen enough of the world, old man.’
With grim slowness he pushed the dagger back into the captain’s empty eye socket. The sound of metal on bone was audible as he scraped the point against the back of the man’s orbit, locating the remnants of the optic nerve. The captain screeched and tried to draw away but one of the highlanders stepped forward to hold the back of his head.
With a steady hand and agonising slow pace, Ceannaideach continued to apply pressure to the blade. Above the cries of the man the crack of bone splintering could be heard. The captain’s screams suddenly became impossibly high-pitched as the knife entered his brain, an inch at a time. Ceannaideach’s face bore a look of steady concentration as he deliberately controlled the speed of the blade as it penetrated further and further into his victim’s skull. The captain’s cries changed from squeals of pain to strange, shouted gibberish. His body bucked and shuddered but the highlander kept him in a merciless grip. Eventually, when the knife had gone in about five inches, the captain stopped making a final gurgling noise and his body slumped into a limp deadweight. The highlander let go of him and the body slid backwards off Ceannaideach’s blade to crumple on the ground.
Hugh Bysset grimaced with displeasure. The strong smell of urine pervaded the air in the tent and at first he thought it came from the captain’s corpse as death relaxed all the muscles in the body, then he spotted the steaming pool that surrounded Raymond de Sandal. The young knight’s face was a mask of terror as Ceannaideach turned his attention to him.
‘Now, laddie,’ Ceannaideach growled. ‘Why don’t you go easy on yourself and tell us what we want to know.’
De Sandal looked desperately at the two Byssets, his eyes beseeching for mercy. ‘Help me! Syr Hugh, our fathers are friends! John, we’ve fought together! Hunted together!’
John Bysset returned Sandal’s desperate pleading with a wicked smile. ‘You have chosen your side in this war, Raymond, and you’ve chosen badly. We cannot help you now.’
The elder Bysset avoided Raymond’s eyes and looked down at the ground. ‘Tell them what they want, lad. It will be quicker.’
With the fading of his last hope, something died in Sandal’s eyes. He hung his head in dejection. ‘Syr Roger Mortimer, Lord of the March, employed me to send regular reports to the king about what was going on in Ulster,’ he said in a monotone voice. ‘They know about your plans to invade Ireland but with most of the English army fighting in France, the king is gambling that he can rely on the Irish lords to repel the invasion. Last week I received orders from Mortimer that I was to make contact with a knight called Richard le Savage who would soon be arriving in Ulster as emissary of the English King. The superficial reason for Savage’s visit is to bear a message from the king to the earl, but his real mission is to act as a spy and try to determine which nobles can be trusted to fight for the English Crown. The justiciar will be informed and those deemed untrustworthy dealt with. I was to give Savage whatever help he needed.’ De Sandal sighed.
There were a few moments silence. ‘You have no doubt already told the king what side we are on?’ Hugh Bysset asked.
De Sandal shook his head. ‘I did not know until now. You are a friend of my father’s; you hid your treachery well.’ A spark of bitterness entered his voice.
‘You are scum, de Sandal,’ John Bysset spat. ‘A spy. A dirty cloak-and-dagger man. What way is that for a knight to behave?’
‘Better than one who betrays his rightful king and the land of his birth.’ De Sandal raised his head and met Bysset’s glare.
John Bysset’s nostrils flared. His eyes blazed and he spat into the upturned face of de Sandal, then slapped the back of his hand across his face, knocking him sideways.
Hugh Bysset turned to Robert Bruce. ‘Robert, this young man could be useful to you. I know his father and the whole family are all great warriors. Perhaps you should offer him the chance to join our cause? Perhaps if he knew about the holy treasure you have…’
‘It’s too late,’ Edward Bruce growled. ‘The game has already begun. The dies are cast. Sides have been chosen
. Kill him.’
Ceannaideach grinned and held the hilt of his dagger towards Edward Bruce. ‘The pleasure is yours, sire.’
Edward Bruce hesitated, looking down at the knife with a slightly appalled expression on his face.
‘Let me do the honours.’ John Bysset stepped forward and grabbed the dagger from Ceannaideach. He pulled de Sandal’s head back by the hair and swiftly drew the blade across the Irish knight’s throat, opening up a wide, gory tear. Air wheezed from de Sandal’s cut windpipe and hot blood from the severed arteries shot up in a fountain to splatter Bysset’s chest and face. With an annoyed grunt he shoved the dying knight away from him so he collapsed sideways to gurgle and choke his last few moments of life away on the ground in a swift-spreading pool of blood.
Hugh Bysset sighed. ‘There was no need for that,’ he said.
Edward Bruce glared at him. ‘He chose his side. He had to die. Everyone who opposes me will meet the same fate.’
Both men locked gazes for several moments until King Robert stepped between them. ‘Come, men. Let us not fall out over a couple of dead spies. We have bigger challenges to face and another spy to deal with, probably a more dangerous one. I do not like the idea of this Richard Savage being in Ulster at this time. If he finds out who our supporters in Ireland are and he tells the justiciar, it could totally destroy our invasion plans.’
‘So what do want us to do?’ Ceannaideach asked.
‘I want him found and I want him dead,’ Robert Bruce ordered.
15
As time crept past, Richard Savage grew more and more bored. After considering several escape plans, searching the room for potential weapons and thinking through how he could defend himself against possible attacks, he was left with very little left to do but lie on the bed. At one point he even dozed off.
Lions of the Grail Page 10
